The two glasses stood there--his own not quite empty--and the jug between them.

His father's chair was drawn to the table, as if he were still sitting in it; his own was flung back as he had pushed it from him in his passion.

There was an old print over the stove at which he looked presently--it had been his mother's, and he remembered it as long as his life had been--it was of Christ carrying His cross.
His shame began to increase on him.

How wickedly he had answered, with every word a wound! He knew that the most poisonous of them all were false; he had known it even while he spoke them; it was not to curry favour with her Grace that his father had lapsed; it was that his temper was tried beyond bearing by those continual fines and rebuffs; the old man's patience was gone--that was all.

And he, his son, had not said one word of comfort or strength; he had thought of himself and his own wrongs, and being reviled he had reviled again....
There stood against the wall between the windows a table and an oaken desk that held the estate-bills and books; and beside the desk were laid clean sheets of paper, an ink-pot, a pounce-box, and three or four feather pens.